Cinnamon Secrets
by shilo1364
Summary: unspecified 1700s-ish Period!AU. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are rival apprentices on Diagon Alley. Harry apprentices at his family's Potions business under Severus Snape; Draco apprentices at his mother's Sweets Shop. They set aside some of their rivalry for a mutually beneficial alliance.


_Written for dictionarywrites on tumblr for the GWB Secret Santa exchange. I tried to stick to your prompt as close as possible: drarry period au as apprentices on diagon alley. I hope you like it!_

* * *

Harry warily eyed the stuffed albino crocodile that hung from the rafters of Potters' Potions. It always looked like it was about to fall on him, and he was sure he saw an evil gleam in the thing's glassy eye. He clutched a handful of Snape's notes to his chest as he edged cautiously past the narrow shelves packed close with dusty glass bottles of potions, trying to avoid stepping on the squeakiest floorboards. He shifted his weight at the threshold and winced as an over-loud _screech!_ echoed through the empty room. Damn.

"Potter!" Snape's nasal tones issued menacingly from the brewing room on the other side of the shop.

Harry hurried across the cavernous store-room at the back of the shop, no longer trying to silence his steps. The important thing now was to escape to the outside in the sun and fresh air where Snape never followed. If he hadn't spent the past several summers working for the man, Harry would have sworn Snape was a vampire.

"Potter! Have you been messing about with my notes! Where do you think you're going? You've not finished cleaning the cauldrons! And where's that newt liver? I want it diced, not chopped, you incompetent brat! Why I wast my time on you, I—"

He slammed out the door, wincing as the jar Snape had thrown at him hit the wall beside the door with a crash. He hoped whatever was in it wasn't too vile, since he'd be the one to clean it up. A glorified house-elf, that's what he was. If he could only offer something useful, then maybe… but he was as useless at Potions now as he had been in school.

He scowled as he stomped across the small courtyard, stripping off his heavy protective robes and gloves as he went, and threw himself down onto a bale of hay, coughing at the resulting fragrant cloud of dust.

Snape had been his father's assistant and had taken over the Potions business when Harry's family had all died of dragon pox. Surely that wasn't reason enough for him to take Harry in and insist on apprenticing him when he clearly had no talent for it. Was it?

He shook his head. He'd learned trying to figure out _anything_ about Snape's motivations was a waste of effort. He picked up the sheaf of parchments and squinted at it, trying to make out Snape's spidery scrawl. Did that say newt eggs? Newt legs? Screwt eggs? He turned the parchment sideways, hoping the new angle would provide some insight. It didn't.

* * *

Harry glared at the notes as he laboriously copied them, balling up another sheet of parchment in frustration and then smoothing it out guiltily. Parchment cost money, as Snape was always reminding him.

"How am I supposed to know what to use to magnify the effects of the mistletoe?" he asked the sky, annoyed. Snape's latest demand seemed as impossible as the rest. Harry was obviously never going to have the intuition for potions that Snape demanded he develop. Why did the man insist on torturing them both?

The clouds scudded past, entirely unhelpful.

"Cinnamon."

"What?" He turned to find the lanky confectioner's apprentice lounging on an upturned barrel beside his mother's sweet shop. The two shops shared the small enclosed courtyard at their backs. It opened onto Potters' Potions' storeroom and Narcissa's Ambrosia's kitchen, so both apprentices made use of it when they needed to escape their duties, but they usually avoided one another. Or sniped at one another. They rarely came to blows, but each had been bruised by the other's hand enough to make them wary.

Just the sight of the other boy, pointy and blond and seemingly always determined to be a thorn in Harry's side, turned his frustration up another notch.

"Piss off, Malfoy!"

"Is that how you respond to a friendly offer of help? My, no wonder you never seem to have any friends."

"Better than friends like Parkinson and Zabini," Harry returned, grimacing. Parkinson wore far too little clothing and pressed herself far too close to every man around, Malfoy included; Zabini was smooth and dark and a bit too dangerous for Harry's taste.

Malfoy stretched lazily, ignoring the jibe and closing his eyes against the sunlight. His hair gleamed gold and his tunic rode up his lightly-muscled thighs.

Harry quickly glanced away, groaning, and massaged his head with his fingertips.

"Can we not do this today? I have to figure this out or—"

Malfoy inspected his nails. "I told you. Cinnamon. It's not just used in sweets you know."

Harry looked at him, interested and exasperated in equal measure. "Where am I going to get cinnamon? Snape doesn't exactly pay me well, you know." _Or at all_ , he added in his head.

Malfoy tipped his chin toward the kitchen doorway behind him, and Harry stared. "What, now you're offering a tip _and_ ingredients?" he asked suspiciously.

"Merlin, you're prickly," Malfoy drawled. "I just happened to overhear you _talking to no-one_ and thought I'd save you a bit of your dignity. Anyway," he shrugged, "it's not like I'm offering for _nothing_."

Harry frowned at him dubiously. "What do you get out of it, then?"

"Hmm…"

Malfoy eyed Harry speculatively as he slowly stood and walked toward him, flicking his gaze up and down his body and licking his lips. Harry felt his face heating and fought to control it. Malfoy's eyes reached his again and then slid away.

"I need a source of hangover potion," he said abruptly, mood shifting so fast it left Harry's head reeling.

Harry snorted. "You would. Degenerate." Malfoy and his friends were well known for hanging about the seediest pubs.

Draco's hand snapped out, faster than Harry could register, and cuffed him. "It's not for me, half-wit. My father…"

"Ow! Fucking hell Malfoy!" Harry glared at him as he rubbed his ear. Malfoy's steely gaze didn't waver, and Harry sighed. "Your father _what_?"

"My father drinks too much," Malfoy said softly, letting the words whoosh out of him along with a sigh as he sank onto the hay bale beside Harry and picked up his forgotten notes curiously. "I can handle him the next day," he said, looking up defiantly, "but Mother…"

Harry nodded. He understood that, at least.

"I'll see what I can do."

He watched Malfoy poring over the notes for a minute. "Malfoy?"

"Hmmm?"

"How do you know so much about potions, anyway?"

He stood abruptly, scattering the parchment. "Not that it's any of _your_ business, Potter, but _I_ wanted that Potions apprenticeship. Now I'm stuck working in Mother's sweet shop while your inept self muddles through potions. It's not fair."

He turned without another word and stalked back into the kitchen.

Harry shook his head as he leaned back against the sun-warmed brick wall, propping his head on his hands and closing his eyes against the glare.

 _Merlin, but he's a prickly bastard_ , he thought, bemused, as he added Malfoy's name to the mental 'will never understand them' list that had previously only contained Snape (and so hadn't exactly been a _list_ ) and let himself drift. Even a few minutes of trying to keep up with Malfoy's shifting mood had left him exhausted.

He was rudely awakened, some time later, when something small and sharp thunked against his forehead.

"Fucking hell!" He sat up, rubbing his forehead, and looked down at the tiny sealed box labeled _Cinnamon_ in meticulously precise script, then up at the flash of blond hair disappearing into the kitchen. He was definitely _never_ going to understand Malfoy.

* * *

Harry knocked warily on the kitchen door.

"Yes? Oh, hell. What do you want, Potter?"

Malfoy stalked back toward the table that was littered with dishes and ingredients. Harry hesitated in the doorway, not sure whether he ought to go in. This felt a bit too much like entering enemy territory.

Malfoy turned sharply back to glare at him. "Well? I haven't got all day, Potter. Get in here or get out, it's up to you; I've got to get these in the oven."

Harry rolled his eyes and followed him in. Feeling rather awkward, he attempted to wait patiently, staring around at all the tempting sugary delights at various stages of assembly, while Malfoy muttered and mixed and clattered about with pans and utensils Harry didn't have names for. Harry shoved his hands deep into his pockets so he wouldn't be tempted to touch anything.

Malfoy shut the oven door with a clang and turned to Harry with his hands planted firmly on his hips. His face was flushed from the heat; tendrils of hair had escaped his severe queue and curled in wisps around his face. Harry's eyes caught on the streak of flour across his cheek and lingered there.

"Well?" Malfoy asked impatiently. Harry started guiltily.

He fished three vials out of his pockets and plonked them down onto the table. "Hangover potion. As requested."

"Merlin, Potter, keep your voice down!"

Malfoy quickly stuffed the the vials into his own pockets, then eyed Harry thoughtfully. "And?"

"And what?" Harry frowned, not sure what Malfoy was after.

" _And_ how'd it go. With the cinnamon." Malfoy lowered his voice and rolled his eyes.

"Oh. Yeah. It worked. Um. Thanks." Harry looked at the floor, the shelves, anywhere but the smug grin on Malfoy's face.

When he finally did look at him he yelped and stumbled backward. Malfoy was a lot closer than he'd expected.

Malfoy sniggered and stepped forward, closing the distance between them again. "So, Potter," he said, voice dropping, "What else would you like?"

"Er." Harry felt a bit strangled, and wished Malfoy would give him some space. He couldn't breathe.

The murmur of voices filtered in from the front of the shop, then, along with the click of heels on stone. "Draco? Are you done with those sugarplums yet?"

"Get out," Malfoy said, stepping back quickly.

"What?" Harry asked, dazed.

"Get. Out." Malfoy punctuated his words with shoves, sending Harry out the door and slamming it in his face.

Harry sat on the dusty bricks, staring up at the door for several seconds while he sorted out what had just happened. Then he smiled, dusted himself off, and ducked back into the storeroom in search of Snape's notes.

* * *

Malfoy didn't look up as Harry plonked three more vials of hangover potion onto the table beside him.

"Took you long enough," he sneered as he kneaded something pink and sugary. His long fingers pressed into the dough with sure, swift movements. Harry desperately needed a glass of water. He swallowed.

"I had to sneak some from the latest batch before Snape bottled it; he hasn't declared me competent enough to brew it myself, yet. I pretended I'd spilled it. Which I did, just not by accident and not as much as I told him."

Malfoy's fingers stilled and he looked up sharply. "Clever, Potter. I'm almost impressed." He swiped a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of powdered sugar on his temple. "So. What potions conundrum did Snape set you this week?"

"No," Harry said, and Malfoy raised one pale eyebrow.

"No?"

"No." Harry coughed. "I mean, er, I've already solved this one."

"Oh, really. And yet, you brought me these." Malfoy's hand swept out to indicate the offered three vials, made them disappear into his pockets with a quick flick of his wrist. "What is it you want then, Potter?"

He stepped closer and Harry was suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of peppermint, clean and sharp.

Harry licked his lips. "I. Er. That is."

Malfoy stepped closer, gray eyes intent, and Harry stepped back again until he was pressed against the back of the heavy oak door.

"What do you want, Potter," Malfoy asked again, voice dropping to a low purr.

Harry was too hot. Malfoy was too close. He could feel Malfoy's heart thumping erratically against his chest — or was that his own? His blood thundered in his ears; his hose were suddenly far too tight and he felt lightheaded. Malfoy's body was pressed against him, warm and hard, and everything was too much.

"Draco, darling? Are you back there?"

Harry was abruptly shoved out the door, shivering at the loss of Malfoy's body heat. He blinked at the door, trying to get his brain to work. Suddenly the door opened and Malfoy leaned out, yanking him forward by the front of his tunic to whisper, "Meet me in the courtyard tonight."

Then he was gone and Harry was left with several hours to kill and a slow grin that not even Snape's belligerent shout could dim. He turned back toward the storeroom, whistling. Perhaps he'd sneak tomorrow's notes and get a head start on the next day's potion. Maybe he could endeavor to "spill" some more hangover potion, too. After all, it couldn't hurt to have more to bargain with.

~The End~


End file.
